


Babbo Natale

by ButterflyGhost



Category: due South
Genre: A Whole Lot of Christmas, Canadian Shack, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, DSSS Treat, M/M, Multi, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:23:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5521949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everybody has their Christmas style going. Ray Vecchio grumbles a lot about his boyfriends, does all the cooking but loves it anyway. Benny broods and sulks, possibly for ulterior motives, because he's a sneaky bastard and knows the power of his pout. Ray Kowalski goes bat shit crazy and runs around like a lunatic looking for presents and singing punitively. </p><p>Oh, and hey! They all get laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babbo Natale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jodie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jodie/gifts).



> A treat gift for Jodie, to make up for the terrible, terrible angst of the one she got first this Christmas Day. And also for me, because I like the boys happy.

You ever noticed how hard it is to unlock a door when you're carrying a thousand bags? It's hard. Especially when it’s snowing - snow on snow on snow. Yeah, well. What did I expect in the Arctic at Christmas time? I'm the one who moved here, so suck it up, Vecchio. Besides, I'm an expert at sneaking around quietly. Who knew? 

 

Well, the Feds knew but fuck the Feds. Oh. No, no and no. No. Strike that. That's the most disgusting thought I've had in years. And given I have all sorts of kinky thoughts about my boyfriends, that's saying something. The Feds are long gone. This time, I am using my mad ninja skills for the power of fun. 

 

I picked a good time to sneak the presents in. Benny and Kowalski are out in the Jeep getting last minute groceries, but I still have to be cautious. I wouldn't put it past Kowalski to stay behind so he can jump out at me and beg me to let him open one present early. I feel like  _Gesu' Bambino_ here - which is both blasphemous and embarrassing. I'm not a baby anything, and I'm definitely not Jesus. Sorry, God. What is _with_ my subconscious these days? First the Feds, now this? Think I'll settle for  _Babbo Natale._ Mind you, I'm not a father either, but I don't mind as much as I thought I would. Just turned fifty here and my two schmucks of boyfriends need looking after, so, I'm as good as a father. Besides, I'm happy as a clam.

 

Huh. Are clams happy? What do they have to be happy about? They just sit around in shells and wait for someone to eat them. So, if they _are_ happy then _why_ are they happy? Who knows? 

 

Okay, that’s a Kowalski derailment of thought right there. We'll have to ask Benny. He knows everything, or as good as. If he doesn't know, he'll find out.

 

But yeah. My boyfriends are kids. Fifty-year-old kids by now, so they're not growing out of it anytime soon. Kowalski's like a toddler some days, and Benny sulks better than anyone I know. He even pouts when he doesn't get his way. Then he pouts some more when you point it out to him. 'I do not pout,' he says, usually followed by 'I do not sulk.' 

 

Last time he said that Kowalski literally fell over laughing. 'Oh God,' he said, thumping the floor. 'I'm ROLFING: it's a real thing!' 

 

'What's rolfing?' Benny asked and Kowalski howled some more. 

 

'It means 'rolling on the floor laughing.' I tried to keep a straight face, but it was hard with Benny stuck between puzzlement and a full out snit. 

 

'But surely,' Benny's forehead crinkled in puzzlement, 'that would be rofling.'

 

At which point I cracked up. I couldn't help it. Between Benny and Kowalski I had no hope. At least _I_ wasn't purple and lying on my back flailing like Kowalski. Benny pouted, we laughed some more, maybe Kowalski even cried a little, Benny’s pout became a scowl and the sulk was on. It didn’t last long though. When we’d stopped wheezing Kowalski and I apologised, and then we worked as a team to kiss the sulk right out of him.

 

So what if half the time it's like living with two kids? We’ve all got our special skills; that’s the main thing. It’s just as well. I have no outdoor survival skills at all. Well - I do, but it takes a plane crash to motivate me to use them. Still, even though I suck at chopping wood, (again unless a plane crashes) I know that Benny and Kowalski need me. Not just for the sex and the cuddles either. If I left the cooking to Kowalski we'd starve to death, what with takeout being thin on the ground 'round here. And if I left it to Benny we'd eat nothing but oatmeal, burnt bannocks, pemmican and moose. We wouldn't starve to death, but we'd _want_ to.

 

All of which is why I've spent the last year getting ready for the feast tomorrow.

 

Not kidding. I made the Christmas cake six months ago, and the actual pudding last YEAR. And if I say so myself, it’s going to be good. Vecchio Christmas puddings are the best. Not just in Canada, not just in this continent. Best in the _world._ That’s not vanity; that’s a law of nature. I have it on good authority: Benny said so. It must be true.

 

Mind you, Benny _had_ just eaten his body weight in Christmas pudding laced with limoncello and covered with brandy butter. Plus he’d drunk a whole glass of eggnog, so he was sozzled. Gotta hand it to him though - the man knows good food when he tastes it. Even if he’s a lightweight, who can’t cook for love nor money.

 

Tomorrow marks the end of my annual Christmas menu marathon. (I’ll start again on St Stephen’s.) So far I’ve spent all day doing food prep. (No fish today though – Kowalski doesn’t like it. Philistine.) So after all this cooking what do I do when I take a well-earned break? I’ll tell you what I do. I stagger across the hardwood floor trying not to drop a thousand presents on it. Bad enough I’m sloshing snow. Which I wouldn’t have to do if Kowalski wasn’t such an infant. Every year it gets harder to find a hiding place that’s safe from Kowalski and polar bears.

 

I worry more about Kowalski than the polar bears. Okay, the bears might eat me. Then again, they won’t break into song and tunelessly sing Christmas carols at me. I swear he does it to punish me for hiding his presents and calling him Stanley. Benny and I have both told him that ‘one hundred bottles of beer on the wall’ is _not_ a carol. He says ‘I started so I’ll finish,’ or ‘damn, I lost my place, I gotta go back to the beginning.’ It’s even worse than him singing punk or Italian arias. I almost wish that I hadn’t introduced him to opera. Almost. Benny’s singing makes up for it. When he’s not concussed.

 

So, here I am, sneaking around my own quaint and rustic cabin. And Kowalski can go fuck himself (or me, or Benny) because it is _not_ a ‘Canadian Shack.’ I don’t know where he gets that shit from; we have indoor plumbing these days. Thank God Benny took the toddler out in the Jeep.

 

Though knowing him, the toddler will try to sneak back and sing me into submission. Or something.

 

Which is why I'm carrying sacks of presents stacked up to my chin, to bring Christmas cheer to these idiots. And because Benny's Christmas brooding is all to do with his so-called 'childhood.' He's still half expecting someone to take all his toys away. Yeah, his Grandmother was great and noble; I get that he admires her and loves her – I even get that she loved him. Just – well, don't tell him I said it, but his Grandmother was a grinch. Who the hell buys classic works of seditious political philosophy for a seven-year-old? As a Christmas present no less? You should have seen his face last year when the first thing he found in his Christmas stocking was a yo-yo. Started playing with it right off. He figured out a basic throw in two seconds flat. Show off. Next thing we know, he's working out tricks by himself and inventing new ones.

 

A gifted lunatic. That's our Benny.

 

So, yeah. Most Christmases Benny is a scowling teenager until we get to the presents. Kowalski on the other hand - boy, you can tell he had a great time at Christmas. Toys, trees, towers of food, chocolate coming out his ears, the whole nine yards. Every year starting at Thanksgiving Kowalski goes plain crazy and gets crazier day by day. (And we've got two Thanksgivings to get through, which doesn’t help.) And when I say he goes 'crazy' I mean, total bat shit crazy. I mean 'kid hyped up on sugar and possibly crack' crazy. I thought _Ma_ lost her shit with the Christmas fever, but Kowalski's got her beat. Every other year, when we do Christmas down South, he proves that he’s got _Frannie_ beat even. Which – wow. Mind you, he puts that crazy to good use. He decorates that Christmas tree like it's an art-form. Which, for him it is. Decorates it to within an inch of its life. 

 

This year looks like his muse is telling him cubism. Or Picasso's Red Period. Hard to tell. (It's official. I've been around Benny too long - I'm being educated.) Whatever. At least, our tree is interesting. Experimental, a bit like Kowalski’s hair.

 

The tree's going to look even more festive in a minute. I examine the presents already nestled under the tree and smile. Gifts from the neighbours and various family, of course. And gifts from each other. More and more each year as we all settle into this whacky relationship.

 

Kowalski's gifts are wrapped up, happy and scruffy in festive paper. It’s all Santa-Clauses, reindeers, shiny snowflakes and a crapload of snowmen. Benny has upgraded to festive colours. First Christmas we all spent together it was old newspaper. Kowalski and I were not impressed. We were so completely not impressed that Benny sulked at us, with hilarious results. (Sometimes I think he sulks for the sex – I mean, have you seen him pout? Who can resist that lower lip?) This year his wrapping is perfect; crisp and tasteful, solid blocks of reds, greens and gold. He's even wrapped them in beautiful contrasting ribbons. The knots look like origami, which serves another purpose besides being pretty. Nobody but Benny could tie them up again, which means that Kowalski can't open them without leaving a trail of forensic evidence. We're all cops, we know a crime scene when we find one. So, ha! Benny knows what he's doing.

 

My wrapping paper isn't paper. It's printed linens that I can reuse. Benny approves because it's recyclable. Kowalski laughs, but I know he secretly thinks it's cool. (And frustrating, because he can't get into these either. Benny's not the only one who can bindle stitch.) Me, I love it because it was my Nonna's idea, way back when I was a kid.

 

I crouch down by the tree and organise everything, so all our parcels are mixed up together. A bit like us three, when I think about it. 

 

The door thumps open just as I finish. Benny and Kowalski troop in, arguing. Sounds like Benny is over his pre-Christmas funk. He's giggling. He giggles a lot more these days. Kowalski's whining at him to let him open 'just one present, _pleeease.'_ Benny looks at me and smirks. (He smirks a lot more these days too.) 

 

'Hello, Ray.'

 

'Hi, Benny. Thanks for minding him. Did you buy him an ice cream at the diner?'

 

Kowalski pretends to scowl. (He's not succeeding - the grin keeps quirking out whether he wants it to or not.)

 

'Hot chocolate, Style Pig. What, are you insane? It's Christmas in the Arctic for God's sake. I want an ice cream I grab some snow and mix it with chocolate syrup.' He sighs. 'Not the same, but what can you do?'

 

I keep a perfectly straight face. The fact that I've shipped him in fixings for ice cream is not something he needs to know quite yet.

 

'You can open one each,' I tell them. 

 

'Yes!' Kowalski punches the air. I raise a finger, paternally.

 

'At one minute past midnight.'

 

Kowalski scowls again. 

 

'You suck,' he says. 'You suck _so_ hard.'

 

Benny giggles.

 

'You suck too,' Kowalski informs him. 

 

Benny covers his mouth, giggles some more then looks at me. _I_ know that look of mischief.  

 

'Do you think we should take this as a suggestion, Ray?' he asks me. 'After all, we do need to distract him for....' he pauses while he works it out from the shadows or something. 'The next two hours and three minutes.' I glance at my watch. Freak. He's right to the minute. Probably the second. How does he _do_ that?

 

Hey, that's not important right now. What's important is distracting Kowalski.

 

'You know, Benny....' I give them both my most sleazy and lecherous smile. 'You have great ideas. And that’s one of them. A great, great idea.' I schmooze up to Kowalski, as Benny does a sideways _slide-step-shuffle_ of his own. (For a guy who can't dance he sure can move). And you know what we've got now? A Kowalski sandwich, that's what. A surprised Kowalski too, which is always fun. 

 

'Oomph,' says Kowalski as Benny sticks his tongue in his ear and I stick my tongue in his mouth. Surprised he might be, but he's getting with the programme if the look in his eyes and the bulge in his pants is anything to go by.

 

So, the first present Benny and I unwrap is Kowalski; then we unwrap each other, and there we are, all unwrapped. Later (much later) Kowalski is sleeping the sleep of the just laid. Benny is resting his head on one shoulder; I've got my head on the other. Even though we're just an inch away from the sleep of the righteously fucked ourselves, Benny rolls a little, moving his face closer to mine. He smiles and we share a lazy kiss. I have no idea if the kiss tastes of me more or Kowalski - but damn. Benny’s mouth is delicious. He raises his hand to my head and strokes my almost complete lack of hair. For some reason, he seems to like that almost as much as I like stroking his thick pelt or Kowalski's electric prickle.

 

'Should we wake him?' Benny asks. 'I mean, it is Christmas, after all.'

 

'Nah,' I say. 'I can't move.'

 

Benny thinks about that. 'Neither can I.'

 

I smirk. We wore out the Mountie. Kowalski and I are Kings of the Universe, Kings of Sex itself.

 

'Cool.' I yawn. 'Happy Christmas, Benny.'

 

'Happy Christmas, Ray,' he says, kisses my nose and conks out. When that man falls asleep, he _falls._ I grin. Benny’s down the well. I leave my head where it is on Kowalski, and my hand where it is on Benny's butt. It’s so perfect that it even alliterates. (See? Benny’s teaching me.)

 

I snuggle closer and breathe in the both of them. Every Christmas we've had together has been the best Christmas yet.

 

I can’t wait for the next one.

 

 

 


End file.
